


Haven't Had Enough

by Victuuri gives me feelings (Help_Im_Shipper_Trash)



Category: Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi
Genre: Author got way too obsessed with Given, Author just likes it, Because shut up I'm tired, Disclaimer part 2: Song title has literally nothing to do with this fic, Disclaimer: no actual song is performed in this fanfic, M/M, Masamune is a popular singer, Ritsu is his songwriter, Seriously if you haven't already watched it p l e a s e
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22933648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Help_Im_Shipper_Trash/pseuds/Victuuri%20gives%20me%20feelings
Summary: He was a singer. He (not the same he; a different he) was his songwriter. Can I make it any more obvious?
Relationships: Onodera Ritsu/Takano Masamune
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Haven't Had Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Uh... Hi? Surprise, I'm not dead? I̶'̶m̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶s̶o̶r̶r̶y̶ ̶d̶o̶e̶s̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶r̶e̶m̶e̶m̶b̶e̶r̶ ̶m̶e̶?̶ I know it's been a really long time since I've posted anything, and I am very sorry about that. Shit's been crazy but I'm finally starting to get back into a place where I actually??? Have time to write???? Wild. (Sidenote: Ya girl just moved out for the first time ever!!!!!! Hello MTV welcome to my crib.) I wrote this little piece as a way to dip my toes back into the water (ink? Keyboard??) and hopefully there will be more to come soon! 
> 
> P.S. Did I become hyperfixated on Given and let it consume me the entirety of the time it was airing? Yes. Did I still somehow circle back to my favorite problematic idiots whom I love and adore? Also yes. Please help I'll never escape. 
> 
> O̶k̶a̶y̶ ̶e̶n̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶b̶u̶l̶l̶s̶h̶i̶t̶ ̶g̶o̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶g̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶v̶a̶l̶i̶d̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶p̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶g̶

The lights are too bright. They're always too bright. Maybe if they would stop fucking _spinning_ it would be alright, but sadly that is not an option. Everything is a disorienting blur. He's done this a million times, but he's still never quite gotten used to it.

The stupid lights are too bright. He can barely see. They flash harshly and mercilessly, glaring cruelly into his unshielded eyes. He's going to need new glasses if they continue blinding him at every show like this. All that exists to him now is the space between himself and the ring of light that completely surrounds him about ten feet ahead. Everything beyond that ring is an indecipherable haze. If he didn't already know about the mass of people sitting just outside of what has become his own temporary little world, he wouldn't know that they were even there.

The lights are way too bright, and the stale, sweat stenched air is far too stifling. His black hair is plastered to his forehead, so he pushes it back. Every seat in the damn stadium is filled. Thousands of bodies are packed into a space that is ill-suited to maintain such a ridiculous number of people. With their mere presence, each person screaming and crying and breathing serves in making the temperature skyrocket to hellish levels. He can barely breathe thanks to the air that is thick with electricity. Maybe that's why his heart is pounding so hard. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline.

The lights are too damn _bright_ , the thick air is suffocating him, and the roar of the screaming crowd combined with the music surrounding him on all sides, as always, is deafening. The sound is tangible. The force of it shakes his bones and threatens to shatter his eardrums. It's a wonder it doesn't knock him off his feet.

His arms ache from the weight of the instrument in his hands and his fingertips are sore for the same reason. He's exhausted, yet despite the fatigue, he's never felt so alive.

It doesn't matter that the lights are blinding him, that the air is strangling him, or that the noise is about two steps away from physically crushing him. He's _living_ for it. It makes no sense to him either, but he's always felt calmest when surrounded by this chaos. Somehow, a single coherent thought manages to make its way above all the madness:

_'I'm getting too old for this.'_

He strums the final chord on his guitar. The last notes of his voice are slowly swallowed into the heavy air, as the echoes fade into nothingness. For a brief, blessed moment, there is sweet silence.

Then the crowd explodes.

It takes everything he has not to flinch at the outbreak of ear-splitting noise. This is his fans showing him that they enjoyed his performance. He appreciates the loudness. Clearing his throat discreetly, he makes note of the strained feeling his vocal cords emit from the simple action. He'll have to rest his voice tonight. If he loses it, more than one person will have his hide. _After all,_ he remembers being told, _what's a musician without his voice?_

Time stretches on, yet the cheers of the crowd are still going as strong as ever. Screams and whoops and praise flow through the stadium like water does in a river.

 _'They loved it.'_ A grin curves his lips. Looks like _somebody_ had been worried for nothing. Not that that's anything new. _'I can't wait to tell him.'_

He'll worry about protecting his voice later, he decides, while he readjusts the microphone that had been knocked askew sometime during the performance. For now, it's time to make his escape. "Thank you, everybody, for coming out tonight to see me," he says, bowing towards the crowd in front of him.

As impossible as it should be, the noise gets louder.

He allows himself a small grin. Tired as he is, he can't deny the self-satisfaction he feels right now. Straightening up, he takes as small of a step as he can towards the exit of the stage. He loves his fans, but he has somewhere he needs to be.

Seeming to materialize out of thin air, a hand with the grip of a boa constrictor latches onto his right arm.

He groans. He should have known he couldn't get out of here so easily. Oh well, it was worth a shot.

Warningly, the offensive hand's nails dig into his skin, effectively thwarting his escape. "And just where do you think _you're_ going, Masamune?" Saccharine sweetness drips from the captor's voice.

Masamune sighs, and shifts the guitar in his arms to another position before the dully burning ache in his muscles causes him to drop it. "Nowhere, Isaka," he promises his manager exasperatedly.

 _'Nowhere,_ now, _anyway.'_ Damn it all, he was so close.

Masamune's displeasure only makes Isaka more amused, judging by how the sadistic bastard smiles brightly. "That's what I thought," he says breezily, clapping Masamune's shoulder roughly.

Masamune shoots Isaka the middle finger with his eyes.

Isaka, strangely, doesn't seem to appreciate the gesture. "Don't forget who it was that got you this gig in the first place, kid," he reminds Masamune with a sharp glare. "Show some gratitude."

Masamune barely manages to hold back his scoff. Of course, Isaka would act all high and mighty for doing his damn job. God, he's infuriating.

Taking the withering scowl as a victory, Isaka throws his arm around Masamune's shoulders and none-too-gently pulls him down into another bow, this one much more awkward than the first.

Cheering, applause, and wild whistling erupts once again.

Masamune grits his teeth so roughly he thinks he hears a crack.

Isaka takes advantage of the noise surrounding them to give one of his famous pieces of unsolicited, unnecessary advice: "You know the drill. Time to meet fans and shake hands."

Masamune sighs, making sure Isaka sees him roll his eyes at the _oh so clever_ phrase he'd coined about ten or fifteen shows ago. If a show ever ends without him saying it, Masamune will eat his guitar, pick and all.

"Got it?" Isaka glares warningly.

Masamune rolls his eyes. Not like he has much of a choice in the matter, now is it?

Sated, for now, Isaka deigns to release him. "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Masamune Takano performing his new album exclusively for you before it hits the market tomorrow!"

Cheers and screams of approval and excitement make the earth at their feet tremor.

"We love you!"

"You're my idol!"

"Marry me!"

"No, me!"

Masamune accepts his fate. _'Yup I'm definitely getting too old for this.'_ It may be his imagination, but he's pretty sure the screaming increases in the area closest to him when he absently brushes his hair back and away from where it's once again fallen into his eyes. He's not ashamed to admit that his ego -which he has been told by a certain person many times _"is big enough, thank you very much"_ \- swells a bit.

There's something like lightning running through his veins that's more intoxicating than any alcohol he's ever tasted when he takes a quick breath in order to address the crowd as a whole one more time for the night. It's addictive, as is the way his heart thunders deep within his ears. He still loves it as much as when he'd only just begun performing, no matter how much time has passed. Go figure.

The lights are dimmer now, but still too bright for him to see past. The only reason he doesn't worry about whether he's facing the crowd or not is that he knows the stadium is round. And _large._

He hopes this second wind doesn't fade anytime soon. It's going to be a while before he actually manages to get out of here.

_'Damn you, Isaka.'_

* * *

Three hours.

It takes _three. Goddamn. Hours_ of generic greetings, tired (but still genuine) smiles, and at least hundreds of autographs before Masamune is allowed to leave.

It's two in the morning. Isaka had noticeably disappeared somewhere around midnight. The bastard has probably long since gone to bed. Masamune vows to slaughter his manager the next time he sees him.

He's still muttering obscenities under his breath when he slides the key into the locked door of his dressing room. Pushing it open, he's surprised to find that the room is conspicuously less unoccupied than he'd last left it. He freezes in the doorway. _'Goddammit, did someone break in again?'_ That's just what he needs. Hasn't today been full of enough bullshit?

Strangely, the person is sitting on the floor, and he doesn't react to the door closing behind Masamune. Also, he's... humming?

' _Oh._ ' Everything clicks into place as Masamune takes in the not-quite-an-intruder's outline. His wary surprise fades quickly. Tiredness had clouded his thinking skills for a moment, but he'd know that back and the curves of those shoulders anywhere. Still, the confusion remains.

"Ritsu? What the heck are you still doing here?" He doesn't bother asking why Ritsu is sitting on the floor when there's a perfectly good chair less than ten feet away. At this point, it's just A Ritsu Thing.

There's no response to his question.

Masamune's confusion increases. Then he notices that Ritsu is wearing his beloved noise-canceling _headphones. 'Ah.'_ He grins wryly.

Ritsu is already such an airhead; having something that makes it even easier for him to space out and stop paying attention to his surroundings is just asking for trouble.

Luckily, trouble is Masamune's middle name. His grin turns into a smirk.

It's Ritsu's own fault, really. His cute reactions are just _so_ entertaining.

Creeping closer and closer to his prey, Masamune sees the notebook propped on Ritsu's lap. He bites back an incredulous laugh. It's past two o'clock in the damn morning, and this idiot is still working. _'Unbelievable.'_

It seems that Ritsu is brainstorming. His pointer finger is resting against his bottom lip and the side of it is trapped between his teeth. It's a habit Masamune has come to realize means that Ritsu is thinking hard about something. Warmth blooms inside his chest. Always so diligent, his Ritsu. Unfortunately (for Ritsu that is), that only makes him all the more endearing to Masamune. It's been a long, _extremely_ exhausting day. What better pick me up could be asked for? Slowly, he lowers himself to the floor; sitting behind Ritsu.

Then, he attacks.

Ritsu jolts, his pen goes flying, and his notebook falls to the floor with a soft thud when Masamune suddenly wraps his arms around him from behind and pulls him against his unfairly firm chest.

The shriek he lets out is everything Masamune had hoped for and more. What can he say? His boyfriend is way too adorable not to tease.

"Masamune," Ritsu whines, putting his hand over his chest and feeling his heartbeat slowly climb back down from the high level it had jumped to thanks to a certain jerk's antics.

Masamune doesn't bite back his laugh this time. Carefully, he pulls Ritsu's headphones off and places them on the floor. Ritsu would kill him if they broke. "What," he asks, pouring fake obliviousness into his voice. He feels lighter than he has all night, here in his little bubble with Ritsu. "I tried talking to you but you couldn't hear me. Clearly, there was no other way for me to get your attention," he says mock-somberly. Yes, he knows he's an asshole. No, he does not intend to change it.

Ritsu huffs in exasperation. Irritation and embarrassment team up to turn his cheeks and the tips of his ears a light shade of pink.

Masamune's face had already been feeling sore after flashing smile after smile at his fans after the show. Now he feels like it could split open if he smiles any wider. God, he loves this stubborn airhead.

Ritsu sighs in defeat and slumps back more comfortably against this jerk that he happens to love for some reason.

Masamune relishes the soft warmth of Ritsu relaxing into his chest. It usually takes a lot for his shy boyfriend to let himself be held like this. And, even though it's happening more often lately, Masamune still selfishly cherishes each and every instance it happens. Adjusting his arms around Ritsu, he places his chin on top of Ritsu's right shoulder. "What are you still doing here," he repeats his question from earlier. He usually speaks loudly, but that's not necessary right now. It's just him and Ritsu. Like it always should be.

The soft, deep rumble of Masamune's voice right next to Ritsu's ear is too much for him to handle. The vibrations travel straight from into his ear and down his spine. He tries to suppress a shiver, but he can't.

Masamune's grin returns.

"I came to see your show," Ritsu says, though it's only half of the truth. "I guess they liked your new songs," he comments idly. "Even with my headphones on, I thought I was about to go deaf."

Masamune quirks an eyebrow. He recognizes an evasive Ritsu when he sees one. "They liked _your_ songs," he tells Ritsu firmly. "You're the one with the real talent. I just stand up on stage with a guitar and look pretty." He presses his smile into Ritsu's shoulder.

Ritsu snorts, shaking his head amusedly.

Masamune wishes that they could stay like this forever. "And of course you came to see the show. I know that much, dummy," he admonishes, lightly tapping his head against Ritsu's as a punishment for being so vague.

Ritsu protests by letting out a low hum of displeasure and tapping his head against Masamune's right back.

Masamune's smile threatens to split again. "That's not what I asked. The show was over almost four hours ago, and it's about to be three in the morning. Why didn't you go home?"

The redness at the tips of Ritsu's ears brightens. He opens his mouth.

Masamune instantly knows what excuse he's going to use. "And don't say that you wanted to write because you could have done that at home," he points out, nipping the side of Ritsu's neck in warning.

Ritsu squeaks and then closes his mouth.

What in the world is Masamune going to do with this idiot? Oh, right: the answer is obviously kiss him. Many times.

"I just… wanted to wait for you," Ritsu mumbles. "That's all."

Masamune's heart does a somersault. This man is going to be the death of him, he swears. "Thank you." He kisses Ritsu's warm cheek. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

A small breath hitches in Ritsu's throat. It's a moment before he speaks again. "It's- it's fine," he says weakly. "After all, between the two of us, I think I kept you waiting more than the other way around." He clears his throat sheepishly.

Ritsu's jab at himself catches Masamune off guard, and he laughs. "I can't say you're wrong," he agrees teasingly.

Ritsu playfully nudges him in the ribs.

Masamune laughs again. He knows that they should be getting up to head home, but he can't bear to let go just yet.

Ritsu appears to read his mind. "We should go. It's really late, and I'm sure you're tired," he remarks sympathetically.

Masamune sighs heavily. "You're not wrong about that either." Right now, he feels like he could sleep for a week. "But are you perhaps offering me your company this evening," he asks, laying another kiss on Ritsu's neck. This one lingers more than the one before.

Ritsu laughs shakily. "Sure," he says in a way that's probably supposed to sound sarcastic but falls just short.

Masamune enjoys the way he can feel Ritsu's pulse race. "Well then, your place, or mine," he asks in a whisper.

Ritsu's breath trembles. "That," he starts, voice slightly strained. "That line might have worked if it wasn't almost three a.m. and if we didn't live together."

Oh, he's too fucking adorable. How can Masamune resist? "Hmm. I think it worked just fine," he says smugly.

Ritsu scoffs. It lacks his usual fire.

Unfortunately, Masamune's traitorous body chooses that moment to betray him. His stomach rumbles, too loud to go unheard. Damn, now that he thinks about it, when's the last time he ate?

Ritsu cranes his neck to look at Masamune with concern. "Are you hungry," he asks worriedly.

Masamune's heart warms. He loves everything about this man and he would happily proclaim it to all of his fans on stage if Ritsu would let him. Maybe one day. "Yeah, I guess I am," he admits, realizing that he hasn't eaten since early this morning. Isaka had kept him too busy to even scarf down a sandwich.

Bastard.

Ritsu hums in contemplation for a bit.

Masamune knows that this moment will soon end, so he shamelessly takes advantage of every last second before it does.

Ritsu places his hands over the tops of Masamune's. "Do you want to head home and see if there's any place open at this ungodly hour that will give us food," he finally suggests.

 _Home._ The deep ache of exhaustion that's been settled into Masamune's very bones since he finally stepped off the stage eases slightly. Somehow, the angel in front of him always knows just what he needs. "That sounds perfect," he agrees, letting out a deep breath now that it feels like he can.

Ritsu smiles; more blinding than the stage lights.

Masamune's heart skips a beat.

_'I'm getting too old for this.'_

And yet, he feels more alive than he ever has.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof can you tell it's been a while since I've written? Lol, thank y'all for reading, and I hope to have more for you soon!
> 
> P.S. Go watch Given I'm begging you


End file.
